My mum is shaking me awake, yelling that I'm going to be late. She's ripped the curtains open and piercing sunlight floods into my room. I groan with satisfaction; such a beautiful day.

Then realization hits. It dawns on me what day it is and my groan of satisfaction turns into a moan of frustration. This day, this beautiful, gorgeous monday, this day is the first day of school.

The first time I see her she is walking alone. Head down, staring at the floor, her arms tightly hugging a thick text book. She walks against the flow of student traffic, jostled from side-to-side. She never looks up. She never complains. She looks vulnerable; maybe a victim of bullying. I watch her up until the end of the corridor where she turns right and disappears. I am instantly attracted.

We're in the same English class and my heart skips a beat when I see her. She's sitting at the front, already pouring over an open book. The class around her are like a pack of wild animals, screaming and shouting, creating an incredible noise. But she just sits there, unaffected by the behavior of others.

I sneak quick glances at her throughout the class. My stomach flutters every time she does something. I take everything in; the way her finger trembles when she tentatively raises her hand in the air; her tongue as it brushes her top lip when she's thinking; even the way she's wrapped her foot around the chair leg; but mostly it's the triumphant flush in her cheeks every time she gets a question right. I'm ensnared.

The girl next to her infuriates me. Blonde hair and make-up. Air of popularity. Push-up bra; top buttons on her shirt undone, revealing an undeveloped cleavage. A self-imposed superiority over others. A bully. A slut, in my opinion. I want to grab her by the hair and smash her face against the table. How dare she sit next to my girl, putrefying the air with her vulgarity.

My girl, the one with brains and the trembling finger, my girl is true beauty.

When the bell rings she snatches up her stuff and, with her head bowed, she leaves the room. I watch her the entire time.

My mum says she's made chicken, but I tell her I'm not hungry and head for my room. Flopping down on my bed, I let her engulf me. My heart is hammering and my mouth is dry. I have never felt like this. I imagine us laughing together. I imagine us sharing ice-cream. I will talk to her tomorrow.

The route she takes home is a path that follows the river by our school; it's also the way I walk home. It's here that I decide to make my move.

She's walking alone and only a couple of paces ahead of me when I say hi. She jumps and turns around.

'Hi,' she says, a little embarrassed.

I apologize for scaring her and she tells me it's fine.

'How was your second day of high school?' I ask her.

She shrugs and says it was good. I ask if I can walk with her and she nods. Walking together I want to reach out and touch her face. Now that I'm beside her I don't know what to say. I eventually ask what her favourite class is.

'English,' she replies. 'Yours?'

I laugh and tell her, English. She giggles and I almost trip over my own feet. Being with her is more overwhelming than I expected. I want to say something funny or perform some kind of extraordinary feat. But all I do is listen when she talks and watch her intently. Eventually we're outside my house.

'This is me,' I tell her, indicating the little bungalow. I want to invite her in. My heart thuds against my chest as I imagine being in the same bed as her. I decide against it.

'Bye,' she says and heads off down the street. I don't say bye, instead I just stare. My girl is the personification of everything that is innocent, good and beautiful in this world.

We walk together the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. Eventually it's a regular thing, her and I, walking home. We talk about everything and learn loads about each other. Her favourite colour is blue and pizza is her favourite food. She loves teenage vampire novels and wants to be a writer when she grows up. She hates sports and drunk people. She's never been on a plane and likes the sound of rain on her bedroom window. Her dad's a bin-man and her mum likes photography. She never tells them anything.

In turn I tell her about my love for sci-fi films and comic books; how my mums bolognaise is the best; and how I've never met my dad.

For the third week running, we're standing outside my house and I feel the time is right.

'Do you want to come in?' I ask her.

She's hesitant and takes a slight step back.

'It's okay,' I tell her, 'my mum's not in.'

She nods and we head up the path. Inside, my eyes follow her as she takes in my home, looking at photographs and eyeing the decor.

'Want to see my room?' I ask.

'Okay,' she says quietly.

My bedroom walls are plastered with sci-fi posters and my own personal drawings.

I sit on the bed and she sits down beside me.

'I like it,' she says.

'Me too,' I reply, my eyes hungrily roaming over her. I place a hand on her thigh and she stiffens.

'It's okay,' I assure her.

I push her back gently and we fall into the pillow.

It's greater than anything I have ever experienced. The intimacy, the heat. Then the surging, rushing, powerful release that washes over me. I rollover, panting, sweating and staring at the ceiling.

'I think I love you,' I tell her.

She doesn't say a word.

It comes to a point when I don't even have to ask her in. She walks up the garden path ahead of me, and when I open the door she leads the way to the bedroom.

I buy her gifts; books and chocolates, things like that. I take her to the cinema and buy her dinner; we've even shared that ice-cream I fantasized about.

I think about all these things while staring at her in class; watching her work religiously, never asking questions and always concentrating.

I lick my top lip. My mum isn't home tonight, giving my angel and I some privacy.

I'm thinking about what to make her for dinner when the girl beside her, the girl I hate, the one with the blonde hair and the slutty disposition, this girl raises her hand in the air, looks up and asks me, 'Sir, can you help me with this?'

About Me

M.W. Johnston

Twisted tales of twisted things I guess, taken from my unpublished and unfinished book of short stories aptly named, 'Toilet'. So named because most of these twisted tales of twisted things were dreamed up while I was unglamorously perched upon the throne. Enjoy.....